SEVEN DAYS (14 page)

“And where will you be staying?” Lisa asked.

“Big house in the country,” Judy said.

“Not a nunnery then?” asked Lisa.

“No, of course not a nunnery,” said Judy. “Why do you say that?”

“Because you are packing these clothes,” Lisa said. “You want to have fun, right? You want to make friends? Some male friends? You want to fuck, right?”

Judy was shocked, but the silence that flowered between them became less scary with each passing second.

“Well, yeah,” she admitted. “If there's someone nice.”

“Don’t wear those pyjamas,” Lisa said.

“I don’t intend to,” said Judy, meekly, though she had been intending to wash and pack them.

Lisa sighed as she lifted a pair of black track bottoms from the case, as if they were some dead thing dredged from the ocean. Judy had the same in grey and burgundy. Packed. They were practical and comfortable and she didn't mind if they got dirty. She said as much to Lisa who scowled and was now going through Judy's selected knickers with equal distaste.

“They're functional,” Judy said.

“All knickers are functional—they go up, they come down—but if you wear these, you will be the only person pulling them down.”

Although Judy was offended by Lisa's bluntness, she felt lost when Lisa threw the knickers back into her case, exasperated.

“Any advice?” Judy asked, cringing at the way her voice sounded.

“Burn them,” Lisa said.

“Serious advice?”

“Burn them,” Lisa said. “You need to be free of panties like these. I wouldn't even call them panties. I'd call them chastity belts.”

“I can't afford new underwear,” Judy said.

“Then go without,” Lisa said. “See how that makes you feel.”

She was still going through Judy's case.

“I would like to give you a gift,” Lisa said. “I have a dress. Too small for me...it's okay, I can admit it, because I'm comfortable with how I look. The dress is too small because I am fat, but on you...” She smacked her lips. “You are already beautiful. For sexy, you need some help.”

Judy laughed, thinking grimly of how freaked out Mark had looked when she'd tried to kiss him.

“I don't think I know how to do sexy,” Judy admitted.

“Sexy is something you are, not something you do,” Lisa said, distracted by vests.

Judy had thought that refreshing her ability to paint would be difficult, but the prospect of learning to be sexy posed even more of a challenge.

“Okay,” Judy acquiesced. “Let's burn knickers.”

On the floor, half-kicked under her bed, were the knickers she had been wearing for Mark; the ones he had removed. She glanced at them and then averted her eyes, but not before Lisa clocked what was going on and bent down to retrieve them.

“But not these,” she said. “These are good. Let me see you in them.”

“Why?” Judy said.

“I want to see what we’re working with.”

Judy felt very shy suddenly and vulnerable too, but it was good to have someone on her side, even if that person could be somewhat abrasive.

“Hurry up and get out of those trousers,” Lisa said.

“What are you? Pyjama police?”

“Come on,” Lisa said, cross. “Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

That was what Judy wanted. She wanted to be able to let go and let somebody who knew her take care of her. Not forever. From time to time. The occasional weekend. A Friday evening. Now.

“Okay,” Judy said, feeling ridiculous, and slid out of her pyjama bottoms. Immediately, Lisa was on her knees, her fairy-tale party dress bunched up around her, helping her on with the black lacy pair.

“These,” Lisa breathed, sliding a finger between the lace and Judy's reddening skin. “You must pack these.”

“I will,” Judy said.

And then Lisa kissed her. On the elastic of her knickers. And then again. Lower. Longer.

Her finger was still beneath the lace, gently exploring the skin of her thigh, as she kissed her again, and then used the fingers of her other hand to tug at the waist.

“Er...Lisa...What are you...I'm not really...I'm not...into...”

“Let yourself go,” said Lisa. Her eyes were huge and honest. Simple.

Judy said nothing. She couldn't. She was tongue-tied.

Eventually, she managed:

“Lisa, I don’t think—”

“Good,” Lisa interrupted. “Don’t think.”

Lisa tugged the knickers down further but didn’t remove them, which turned Judy on immeasurably. The sight of the top of Lisa’s head moving gently back and forth as the woman went down on her was utterly alien to her and that was part of the delicious pleasure. Her heart was thumping. Fear, embarrassment, delight, all fighting for precedence within her.

Lisa kissed Judy’s neat mound of pubic hair, nipping her, eliciting a yelp of shock and pleasure.

“I can’t do this,” Judy said. “You mustn’t.”

She had her hand on Lisa’s head, intending to push her away, but she ended up guiding her instead.

“Oh, go on,” Lisa said, licking her lips extravagantly. “I want to and I know what I’m doing. You’ll see. Sit on the bed.”

Judy did as she was told and Lisa delved deeper than before, sliding her fingers into her now as well and motioning in and out of her with a hypnotic rhythm while sucking and licking at her clit at the same time.

Within a minute, Judy was crying out, despite herself. Lisa did indeed know what she was doing. One finger. Two fingers. Three. A little more forceful now and somewhat faster, pumping, but not too deep, coaxing another orgasm to the surface.

Judy flopped back onto the bed and Lisa lifted one of her friend’s legs so she could drape it over her back and so Lisa could get better access to her clitoris and labia.

Then she removed her wet fingers and used them to lubricate Judy’s anus.

Slowly, slowly, over the course of a minute, still licking and sucking Judy’s pussy, Lisa inserted her middle digit into Judy’s ass.

“Oh my God!” Judy said, alarmed but too aroused to stop her.

“That’s right,” Lisa said and began wiggling her finger, making Judy groan.

“A man would be nice,” Lisa said, “but sometimes we can do without. That’s right, isn’t it? Yes, darling?”

Judy wasn’t listening to her. It was just as well. She wanted a specific man very badly indeed, but tonight, for a few minutes more, she was able to forget.

It would be a long journey of forgetting. But what a way to begin.

It was all going to be okay. She could live without him.

Couldn’t she?

Chapter Five: Saturday—Naked

Thomas Merton:
“Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time,”

“There's a folder marked: 'to file',” Judy said. “Leave all the loose stuff in there and I'll file it when I get back.”

“Don't you have minions to do that?” asked Barry. “Surely, you have minions.”

“It's the minions that got us into this mess and I don't intend to get back into it. I'm also going to need a new password in three days, which, of course, is while I'm away, so I need you to reset my code on the morning it expires.”

“Why don't you just do it when you get back?”

“Because then I can't use remote access, can I?”

“Precisely.”

“If I can't work a little, I'll just spend the whole time worrying. You've got to help me.”

“Judy...it's Saturday morning. Shouldn't you be in bed or something?”

“Yes. And no.”

“...Can I hear a loudspeaker in the background?”

“It's a bad line,” said Judy.

“Are you at the airport?”

“...Maybe.”

“Put the phone down, Judy. Have fun. I'll speak to you when you're back.”

“Just one thing,” she demanded, but the line went dead.

She hadn't been cut off for a long time. It felt very disconcerting. When she put her phone in her handbag it seemed redundant, like her. She wandered towards her gate, which had been called while she was talking.

She was doing it. She was really doing it. She was following her dream. Who knew that dreams could be so terrifying?

As she queued to board the little plane, she looked at the other heads around her and wondered which of them were also embarking on the art retreat. Maybe all of them.

A family of five argued about which of their three children would ride in the double buggy between the departure gate and the plane. Their mother was suggesting that the two youngest should ride in the chair. Simple. The father was suggesting that he should ride in the chair, since he had done all the driving to the airport.

They weren't going on the course,
she thought.

But why not them? She probably seemed an unlikely candidate too, with her completely unfashionable skirt and blouse, which Lisa had begged her not to wear. She looked like she was on her way to work.

Her idea was that she was less likely to encounter any trouble at the airport if she looked business-like. It worked in the office. Barry liked to walk up and down the office with paper in his hand, because it made him look important and busy. The paper was always blank or a personal fax from months ago. Barry had his A4 paper; she had a business suit of armour.

Now that she was inching towards the gate, however, she thought that maybe Lisa was right. She would probably be surrounded by hippies and cool creative people and she didn't really want to be the odd one out in her work clothes. Still, she always travelled in clothes like these. It was a kind of ritual. They might not have looked particularly comfortable, but she was comfortable with the idea of them. If she was dressed entirely inappropriately, maybe she could simply undo some buttons when she got to the other side of the channel.

She was unable to put aside thoughts of Lisa; thinking of loosening her clothes made her think of her friend's lips on her bare skin, cool against the warm, sensitive flesh of her inner thigh. Her friend's fingers, removing the lacy barrier from her sex and blowing gently on her, until she was squirming and begging for her friend to lick her.

Judy had allowed herself to be swept away by Lisa's lips, tongue, fingers. The pleasure had been so quick to come and so intense. Thinking of it now made her giddy. She had been almost pained by pleasure and the sensations had had a shape and a colour and in the process of grasping it she had orgasmed, hard and embarrassingly.

“Stop apologising,” Lisa had said.

“I can't help it,” Judy had replied.

“I’m doing this because I want you,” Lisa had said. “Call it a good luck present if you want.”

She gazed at the huge window that looked out onto the runways and saw herself reflected with her smart, work-like clothes, her neatly-arranged hair, sensible handbag and regulation hand luggage. She wouldn’t have thought that this woman had had her thighs resting on another woman's shoulders just days ago?

“Madam?” the attendant said. She was daydreaming and the queue had moved on without her. She rushed to the podium, had her ticket ripped and then she was on her way to the plane and to France, to art and adventure.

During the flight, she gazed around the cabin and invented histories for everyone she saw, something she hadn't done since she was a child. Imagining that the bald guy in a leather jacket was a spy returning to the French government with official secrets made her laugh out loud and the girl across the aisle from her, a rock chick—and wasn't she proud of it?—gave her a look that might have withered her a few weeks ago, but now amused her, because she couldn't help imagining that this angry babe listening to Nine Inch Nails actually worked in a flower shop, arranging geraniums for the window display before tying ribbons on all the bouquets for delivery. After another scowl from the girl, Judy decided that she wrote the cards as well, with her tongue out, being careful not to make a mistake with joined-up writing.

* * * *

On landing, there was none of the rigmarole of paperwork and bureaucracy that had to be overcome to get through Stansted. From the runway, the Bergerac airport arrivals terminal appeared to be little more than a barn and not a particularly big one at that. Some were amused or bemused as they watched their luggage loaded into a rickety trailer that was then pulled to the building by a noisy tractor.

People were removing their jumpers and cardigans and Judy did the same, pleased that she had worn something modular and that her blouse was made of cool, white cotton. It had turned out to be a good choice, though she hadn't dared believe that the weather would really be significantly warmer after only an hour and a half on a plane.

Inside the arrival terminal, she saw a conveyor belt that was actually a series of rollers, along which two men were sliding cases from a hole in the wall. Judy grabbed her wheelie case, to save it the indignity of ending up in a heap at the other end, then she became part of a semi-organised huddle, shuffling towards the passport inspector who was behind a glass screen.

She was unhappy about the huddle, because she couldn't understand how it worked, but it did and within a few minutes she was practising her French with the passport inspector who gave her a wink and a “bonne journee” and then she was over a fading yellow line and free.

Sliding doors opened for her and she was out in the open.

The sun was high in the cloudless sky and she threw a hand up to shield her eyes as she walked out into the open. Immediately, she felt the difference between this place and her home in Walthamstow. The doors opened onto a small concrete area with steps leading down to a grassy area, a modest car park and beyond that...a field that was uninterrupted until it met the sky. She reeled a moment and smiled, disbelieving that she was really here.

“Hello,” someone said.

A beautiful, young man in dark glasses and a white T-shirt approached her. He beamed at her with perfect white teeth and held her gaze for a long, long time before holding out his hand to be shaken. In the other hand, he held a handwritten, cardboard sign that said: TRIGNAC ART RETREAT.

“Hi,” said Judy, flustered. She gave him her hand and had the sensation that she was implicitly giving herself to him and that he understood that perfectly.

He took her hand in his. In that moment, she was porcelain. He was a collector. He didn't have anything quite like her.

“I'm Andre,” he said, still smiling. “I'd like to welcome you to the art retreat. Did you have a pleasant flight?”

He spoke English with a charming French accent.

Dammit,
she thought, and wished that she had taken Lisa's advice and worn something a little more flattering.

“You only get one chance to make a first impression,” she had said while kissing her gently and sliding her knickers down her legs.

“Lovely,” Judy said. “A very pleasant flight.”

“Fine,” he said. “The minibus is over there.” He pointed. “If you go inside, serve yourself a drink of water, or something stronger. We will leave as soon as everybody is here.”

“How many of us are there?” Judy asked.

“Ten,” he said.

“Intimate then,” Judy said.

Andre examined her seriously over the rim of his glasses. He was lost in thought, perhaps propelling himself into the future with her and a glass of wine.

I'm so yours,
she thought. She wondered how many women there were on the course. How many girls? And how many of them had had the same thought as her?

“I'm Judy,” she added.

“I know,” Andre said.

“Oh yeah, of course.”

“I'm not one of your instructors,” he added, “but I have seen your self-portrait.”

Suddenly, she felt embarrassed, thinking of the scribble she'd done on a finger-smudged mirror.

“That looked nothing like me,” she said.

“That's not what Mark thinks,” replied Andre. “I would agree.”

“What?”

“Please excuse me; I have to rescue somebody who is going the wrong way.” He strode away, toward the car park, pausing once to point her in the direction of the minibus again and insisting that she leave her bag for him to carry.

As she walked, pointedly dragging her case behind her, she felt certain that Andre had been speaking of the same Mark that she had met in the Tate. Yes, he was an art critic and yes, he had given her the book that had contained a leaflet for this retreat. She was dismayed to think that he was sitting on the board that had decided to accept her application.

She was further dismayed when she reached the bus and the first person she saw was the hot rock chick who had been in the next aisle on the plane. She smiled weakly at the girl, who rolled her eyes in return. She wore heavy mascara and had painted her pouty lips black. She was all in black. Even what she could see of her tattoos was devoid of colour. The stem of a black flower wound over one shoulder and perpetually flowered or died on her neck, depending on one's state of mind.

Dying,
Judy thought.
It's definitely dying.

“What the fuck are you staring at now?” the girl said.

“Nothing,” Judy lied.

She was ugly and gorgeous all at once.

Judy sighed, imagining that she would be exactly Andre's type.

Back to square one.

There were three men and seven women in total, not including Andre, who sat in the driver's seat, and the instructor, who by all accounts was hung over, in need of coffee and was yet to return to the bus.

The women were mostly welcoming, but she did notice that they had all dressed like hippies on a summer holiday. They could have put flowers in their hair. She, on the other hand, was the sartorial equivalent of a locked briefcase.